"During the Second
Punic War Hannibal drove the Roman people to despair in
the strength of their gods, and they extended their scope
of appeal for divine assistance. Let Greek gods, then, be
recruited..."(A.H.
McDonald)

Number
TwoAn Omega limited
series by Marc Singer

[Washington, D.C.]
[July 20, 1995.]
[One o'clock in the morning.]

Jack Russell set down his pen. He had just
finished the first entry of his journal, detailing how Hannibal,
Jack's mentor and guide to the world of the immortals, had
suddenly disappeared on him. Now it was time to stop recording
his own history, and start reading somebody else's. Jack had
finally discovered Hannibal's journals, hidden in the library of
the large mansion they were staying in as guests. Jack had no
idea why Hannibal had disappeared, or which enemies might want
such a disappearance, but the journals probably had clues.

Jack did already have two potential suspects:
Antigone and Tiresias, the immortals who had supposedly arranged
Astral's failed attempt to assassinate Hannibal. But he needed to
know more about themfor one thing, what were the strange
rules that governed their interaction with Hannibalbefore
he could tell if they were involved, or decide what to do if they
were.

The biggest mystery that needed solving, as far
as Jack was concerned, was Hannibal himself. Was the old immortal
really the Hannibal? Perhaps it wasn't really that urgent
to find outbut then again, knowing Hannibal's true identity
and origins might be the only way to learn where he'd gone.

Or, Jack had to admit, that could just be his
own way of rationalizing a search for Hannibal's origins before
all else. Accepting that he really had to know, Jack
rummaged through the pile of diaries and memoirs and books,
looking for the oldest one he could find.

It was a bundle of scrolls, contained in a
sealed plastic container, stuffed with notes and additions and
other pieces of paper. And when Jack opened up the earliest dated
scroll and read it, he discovered it wasn't a diary at all, but
some kind of military report.

[From the annals of Mago, quartermaster of the
army of Hannibal; Autumn, 220 B.C.]

...The latest expedition into Africa was a
great success. They brought back over two dozen elephants
suitable for war, and other treasures from the heart of the
continent. The most curious of these was a wild man, said to have
been found in the desert during the expedition's return. Hannibal
was intrigued by tales of the wild man, and it was not long
before he had the despicable creature brought to his palace...

The throne was huge, inlaid with ivory and gold
and all the other treasures Carthage's mercantile empire could
yield. It was rare to find such a luxuriant, wasteful item among
the Governor's possessions, but he kept this specifically to
dazzle and impress. He had only ascended to the Governorship less
than two years ago, and many politiciansboth here and in
Carthagestill felt he shouldn't have been given such a
delicate, important position. They preferred the peacemaking
policies of Hasdrubal, the Governor's late predecessor and
brother-in-law, and feared the new Governor would abandon them
and make war with Rome. The throne was to remind them that it
didn't matter what they thought anymore. For Hannibal was
in power.

But the wild man , who was completely outside
the sphere of Carthaginian politics, wasn't particularly
impressed by the throne. In fact, the wild man's nonchalance was
downright strange; Hannibal didn't care whether he commanded
respect or hatred or awe, as long as he commanded something.
"I would have thought a wild man of the desert would be more
awed by this office," Hannibal said to Mago, his quartmaster
and the official who brought the wild man into the Governor's
office. "Or at least by its finery."

"He is surly and disobedient," Mago
replied, "and doubtless is deliberately failing to show the
proper respect. On your knees, creature." Mago jerked on the
long chain, pulling the wild man to the floor. "Show some
respect for the Governor."

"Maybe I will," the wild man said,
"once you and he... show some respect to me."

He spoke in rough, broken Carthaginian, but
even that astonished the court. Then, once the impertinence of
the wild man's words set in, Mago's face flushed red with rage.
But Hannibal's light tan skin lit up with surprise and delight.
He smiled at the darker man, and said --

[Washington, D.C. 1995 A.D.]

Jack's eyes bulged out, and he reread the
passage. Mago had written, "After this impertinence, the
fair Hannibal showed no sign of anger at the dark creature, but
told him..." Jack had the hardest time deciphering this
stuff, trying to figure out what it really represented and how it
would have looked, but he was pretty sure this meant that
Hannibal, the real Hannibal, was a lighter-skinned man.
And his Hannibal was one of the blackest black men he'd
ever seen.

Jack had always been told that Hannibal was a
black man. It seemed to be a staple of the "revisionist
history"which was shorthand for history about anybody
other than white boysthat was just coming into vogue when
Jack dropped out of college. For some people, the Carthaginian
was a pillar of African-American heritage and a cornerstone of
historical pride. But this and some other references in the
scroll implied that Hannibal was no darker than any other
Northern African, then or now. That shouldn't have mattered to
Jackwho got pissed when other people made a big deal out of
his skin colorbut it really bothered him. It meant that the
Hannibal really wasn't blackand that his Hannibal
really wasn't the great general. Kind of hard to make him a
spiritual father to my race now, Jack figured. And if my Hannibal
wasn't Hannibal, then who was he?

Jack remembered the crazy wild man, bound in
chains and dragged from Africa, and he was afraid and ashamed to
read the rest of the scroll.

Hannibal's smile widened, and became even more
transparently artificial. "But then you might leave, wild
man. And I am told you have some abilities which might be of use
to me."

The wild man drew back a little, and started
blinking and stammering. "II have no abilities."

Hannibal rose from his throne, walked down the
dais, and approached the prisoner. "Spare me your act,"
he said. "You might need it for those petty tribes south of
the desert, but I can appreciate what you are. Magohurt the
man."

"With pleasure, Governor." Still
holding the chain with his right hand, Mago drew back his left
and, swinging it with more power than any human should rightly
have been able to summon, he hit the wild man in the back. Mago
allowed the impact to knock the wild man across the throne room,
but held the chain so it jerked him back in mid-air.

The wild man's body had a huge bruise from
Mago's hand, and several smaller but equally vicious ones from
the chain. But as Hannibal and his retinue watched, the bruises
rapidly healed. Within minutes, it seemed as if there had been no
blow at all. Hannibal helped the wild man to his feet. "So
you can help us after all," the Governor said to the still-
dazed prisoner. "Won't the Romans shit themselves when they
learn we have someone who can match their deathless Gaul?"

Mago was amazed. "You meanhe's one
of the Horatii, too?"

"That's a Roman term, Mago,"
Hannibal snapped. "If we use Roman terms, they've beaten us
already. Don't call him a Horatius, Mago, call him..."
Hannibal shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a God, for
all I care.

"But call him mine."

[From the annals of Mago; Winter, 220 B.C.]

...Sadly, the wild man was assigned to my
office, as all of the HorXXX all of the Gods have been. The
savage is of little use, since his power gives him no physical
strength or advantage, save for when he is injured. So I have
given him menial work in the clerical office, in the hours when
Hannibal's instructors are not training him to fight the Gaul.
Surprisingly, he takes quite well to the work. But he has also
asked to be taught to read and write our language, so he could
help with the clerical duties. I told him no, of course, but have
lately caught him stealing documents and teaching himself to read
from them. On every occasion I have given him a severe beating,
but his repentances last no longer than the scars on his back...

I am sure the creature only sustains his
rebellion because Hannibal keeps supporting him, sometimes even
stops my beatings. He is far too kind to his "Savage,"
but then he has been acting strange ever since he learned the
Romans are supporting the anti-Carthage faction in nearby
Saguntum. Personally, I think nothing will come of it... breaking
the creature's habits will prove far more important than some
backwater town...

[A new scroll, hastily scrawled in a new hand,
dated May, 219 B.C.]

...The quartermaster's duties have kept me so
busy, I have hardly had time to write lately, for the army is on
the move. Hannibal's younger brother Hasdrubal guards Iberia and
provides reinforcements, while we march to take Saguntum. From
what I have overheard, Hannibal does not particularly care which
party rules Saguntum, nor does he consider the town to be a
threat to Iberia's security. He simply wants an excuse to fight
the Romans. It was what his father Hamilcar did, and what he
raised the young Hannibal to do. Hannibal fairly seethes with
hatred for the Romans; if he could not vent his great rage upon
them, I wonder if he would turn upon his own Carthaginian
masters. In any case, the man clearly wants a war with Rome.

And I and my fellow "Gods" are key
parts of this war. Rome seems to have amassed a large number of
"Horatii," men with special powers, named after others
with such powers who were heroes in early Rome. As much as
Hannibal rejects everything Roman, he has followed this idea of
collecting those with powers. Hiding us in the quarter- master's
office, he is now ready to spring us on a fat and sleepy Rome...

[Outside the walls of Saguntum. June, 219 B.C.]

"You called for me, Governor?"

"General, now." Hannibal waved the
wild mannow tamedinto his tent. "It's General
here, or simply Hannibal. The post of Governor was just a means
to an end."

"And that end is forcing your people into
a war with Rome. Risking and sacrificing all their lives."

"Don't sound so bitter, Savage." A
dangerous edge crept into the General's voice, and he remembered
that for all Hannibal's preferential treatment, the man was still
his captor and a bad person to anger. Hannibal continued to
speak, saying, "After all, the war can't kill you,
can it? Why should you worry about death?"

"I am accustomed to worrying about death.
I was raised to think myself mortal, and your expedition found me
in the desert not long after that belief was shattered. I still
fall back on it from time to time."

"Fascinating. Please, Savage, have a
seat." Hannibal reclined on a hard wooden chair, motioning
for his slave to do the same. Hannibal wasn't one for pillows,
not when he was at war. "We're soon going to lay siege to
Saguntum. As I'm sure you know, the siege will occupy all our
attention. A man like you might take advantage of the distraction
to escape."

"The thought had crossed my mind,
General."

Hannibal actually laughed. "No doubt it
has. I don't want that, you know; I need all the Gods I can get
on my side. I can't have you leaving."

"Then you will be tightening my chains, I
take it." The wild man stared at the floor of the tent.

"Hardly. Sometimes the most effective
chain is no chain at all. I want you on my side, Savage."
Hannibal paused to sip water from a hollowed-out gourd, then
offered the gourd to the wild man, who refused. "I also
understand that you have been stealing supplies meant for my
historians."

The wild man actually trembled; he'd grown far
too accustomed to Mago's beatings, even if they hadn't come as
often lately. "II know of no such --"

"Paper and ink, man! Why would a wild
creature and a slave need paper and ink?"

"Why would your pet historians need
them?" the wild man snapped.

He instantly regretted that comment, but
Hannibal just smiled. The wild man could rarely tell whether the
General's smiles were genuine or feigned. "Histories are
important, Savage. If I don't have Silenus and Sosylus write my
side of things, then the record will fall to those Roman dogs,
and who knows what the world will think of me...." Hannibal
seemed lost in thought for a moment; then his head jerked up and
he addressed the wild man. "Alexander the Great,"
Hannibal said.

"What?"

"Alexander the Great. He's like you,
Savage. Unkillable. Immortal."

"He's dead," the wild man
observed.

"And he's going to be remembered as the
greatest general in history," Hannibal said. "Immortal.
We don't all have access to your kind of immortality,
Savage. So our only chance is to write our stories... the story
of a boy who inherits his father's army, and his unfinished work,
and his enemies... ah, but that's Alexander's story, of
course. Until someone else eclipses him."

"History doesn't have enough room for two
immortals?"

"I don't think so, wild man. There can
only be one greatest general. Just as there can only be one
greatest city... Rome dies, or Carthage does. And to the winner
goes immortality."

"Immortality purchased at the cost of all
your men's lives."

Hannibal rose from his chair, and the wild man
was afraid he was in trouble again. But Hannibal placed his gourd
gently on a table, and said, "You may be right. You're the
only one who points these things out to me, Savage. The only
one.... Tell me, why hasn't Mago punished you for these thefts of
yours?"

"Mago is not a smart man. Perhaps he
doesn't know about them."

"Oh, he knows. He even knows about the
journal you've been keeping. He's just afraid to discipline you
anymore. Tell me, Savage, why is that?"

The wild man weighed the options, and decided
this might be the right person and the right time to tell the
truth. "I've been helping him out with the quartermaster's
duties. Well, I've been doing them, actually. Mago's
logistics aren't the best."

"Yes, I thought the new rationing system
was a bit beyond his grasp. Well, Savage, there's only one way to
correct such presumption on your part." Hannibal let the
sentence hang in the air for a minute, and seemed gratified when
he saw the wild man's tension. "I'm going to have to promote
you. Savage, you are now quartermaster-general of my army, and
you report directly to me."

Hannibal was so surprised, he could barely
speak. Finally, he managed to say, "You mean I'm free
now?"

"Absolutely. Of course, you also have so
many responsibilities now, that keep you so close to my office,
that I doubt you'll have time to escape. Come, we have to find
Mago and tell him the good news." Hannibal started leaving
the tent, but then stopped and snapped his fingers. "Oh, one
more thingI can't go around calling my
quartermaster-general 'Savage.' What will people think?
What's your real name, friend?"

The wild man blinked. "I have no name
anymore."

Hannibal was silent for a moment; the dread
look in the wild man's eyes, the tremendous pain lurking behind
his voice, convinced the General not to press the point.
"Very well, then," he said, "you'll have a new
name. One that reflects your closeness to me... and your frank
council... and hopefully your immortality. From now on, you are
to be known as Hasdrubal."

The wild man said, "But that's your
bro--"

"It is a common name in Carthage,"
Hannibal answered curtly. "Do your best to make yourself
uncommon."

[From the annals of Hasdrubal,
quartermaster-general of the army of Hannibal; Summer, 217 B.C.]

...After Saguntum fell, Rome and Carthage were
virtually forced into war. Rome screamed for bloody revenge even
as much of Carthage screamed for Hannibal's head. But as Hannibal
led us through Iberia and across the Alps, his fortunes and his
reputation changed. Town after Roman town fell to him, and
suddenly Carthage realized it could actually beat Rome this time.

The Romans, meanwhile, grew more and more
nervous. They saw that Carthage, too, had Gods on its side;
Mago's barehanded destruction of the walls of Saguntum left
little doubt of that. Our elephants also terrified them; the
creatures have proven sadly ineffective in battle, but their mere
sight terrifies the Romans. No, their mere existence does,
for even those who have not seen them quake at the thought of
elephants crossing the Alps. Africa, come to the very heart of
their continent. Africa ascendant.

Carthage's forces are in high spirits. Even I
am starting to refer to myself as one of them by accidentas
when I said "our" elephantsand I'm not sure if I want
to escape anymore. Except when I see the thousands dead on the
battlefields; supposedly, they die for their respective cities'
very survival, but I fear all this death stems from one man's
rage.

Hannibal is no God or Horatius, although some
claim he is. But even Mago's mighty hands have not killed as many
as Hannibal's desire to be great. Mago and I, and the Roman
Marcus whom I am being trained to fight, we all are content (or
discontent) with being Gods; Hannibal aims for something even
greater....

[Cannae, Italia. July, 216 B.C.]

Hasdrubal stood in the war-tent with Hannibal
and the rest of the inner circle of Hannibal's subordinate
commanders. He now thought of himself as Hasdrubal, and wondered
how long it would be before he thought of himself as a full
Carthaginian.

He'd certainly done more for Carthage than most
of its citizens. During the siege of Saguntumnow three
years pastHasdrubal had grown into his role of
quartermaster-general, overseeing supplies for the army and
giving wise counsel to Hannibal. Where Mago's stick had failed,
Hannibal's carrot had tamed the once-wild man. No matter how much
the cost of war repulsed him, Hasdrubal could not blame Hannibal
for it; the General seemed to burn with a light so fierce, it
incinerated all opposition to him, all concerns of the morality
of his actions.

Hasdrubal even helped Hannibal devise
strategies to confound and kill more Romans. Last fall, when the
army had to find winter quarters, the Romans under Fabius
Cunctator had tried to pin them on the banks of the Volturnus
River. Fabius held the high ground, and for a time it looked like
the Punic camp might be stuck in the vulnerable valley. Hasdrubal
and his men had crept out under cover of night, and rounded up
nearly two thousand oxen in front of their camp. Then they tied
burning branches to the oxen's horns and drove them up a ridge
near the Romans. The Romans mistook the torches for the Punic
army on the move, and charged after them. Hannibal and his
spearmen spent the night skirmishing with the Romans and herding
oxen, and while the Romans were thus occupied, the real Punic
army crept out the mountain pass unopposed.

Hasdrubal had been exhilarated that his scheme
had worked. When the morning sun rose, and he saw the bodies of
all the men who had died over a herd of oxen, his enthusiasm
dimmed. But the triumphant Hannibal was even more radiant than
the sun that morning, and he soon obscured the bodies from
Hasdrubal's conscience.

And so he followed Hannibal right into another
desperate situation. The Punic Army was now holed up in the
abandoned town of Cannae, far from friendly territory and running
low on supplies. The new Roman proconsuls, Varro and Paullus, had
come after Hannibal with four legions and all the Horatii they
could muster. But Hannibal wasn't worried at all.

In fact, he seemed exhilarated as he explained
the strategy to his subordinates and advisors. Hannibal hadn't
fought a battle this huge since last year's crushing victory at
Lake Trasimene, and he said another crushing victory was needed
to reinvigorate his troops and strike fear into the hearts of the
Romans. More likely, Hasdrubal thought, Hannibal needed the
battle for his own morale as much as his troops'. The man
probably didn't even care if they won or lost, so long as he got
to fight the Romans.

Hasdrubal cared intensely. Immortal or not, he
didn't relish the idea of taking a sword to the head. He would do
his best to insure that his side won with a minimum of losses.

After his cow-herding performance at the
Volturnus, Hasdrubal had been awarded command of Hannibal's
Iberian and Gallic cavalry. He found it odd that one conquered
man should be placed in charge of many more, but the rest of the
Punic elite thought it appropriate that strange Hasdrubal run the
motley crew of finely-dressed Iberians and half-naked,
torque-wearing Celts. However, Hasdrubal was also placed in
charge of most of the Punic Gods, for his wing played an
important part in Hannibal's strategy. Hasdrubal left the tent,
arranged his men in formation, and awaited the battle.

After two years of war, Hasdrubal had gotten
used to its rhythms. Long periods of anticipation and tension,
followed by short, terrifying spells of chaos and blood. The
Punic army waited three full days before the Romans accepted
battleprovoked, Hasdrubal feared, by Hannibal's unwarranted
attack on the Roman camp the night before. Proconsul Varro,
driven to anger, led his troops and Horatii into the field. And
the exhilarated Hannibal responded by charging them.

Hasdrubal's cavalry engaged the Roman knights
in a bitter, desperate clash. The fighting grew so thick that the
troops had to dismount and fight on foot. While the
purple-cloaked Iberians and the screaming, war-painted Celts held
the front lines, the Gods started decimating their enemies. On
the Punic side, the Great Maharbal grew to colossal proportions
and began crushing troops. Fierce young Cales Thermiops simply
stared at his foes; his eyes became bright red fireballs, and
turned the Romans into screaming bonfires.

This challenge was swiftly met by the Roman
Horatii, angered and out for blood. Hasdrubal quickly found
himself fighting Zeteis, a Sicilian Greek with the power to fly
who had joined the Roman side. Zeteis liked to strafe his
enemies, killing them with slices from his sword as he flew past
them. Hasdrubal threw his arms up around his head, more out of
instinct than need, and let the Horatius slice him. As of yet, he
was an unknown quantity. Hasdrubal fell, regrowing the ear that
had been separated from his head, and Zeteis hurtled down for the
kill. But thinking Hasdrubal was dying, the Horatius got sloppy;
he wasn't expecting it when Hasdrubal leapt up and grabbed his
arm. Zeteis hacked at Hasdrubal's arms, but Hasdrubal wouldn't
let go, and his arm regrew too quickly to be hacked off. Zeteis
could not escape, and he only had just enough time to realize his
fate before a Celt ran up and stabbed the grounded flyer through
his eye. Zeteis wasn't quite dead by the time Hasdrubal's ear had
fully regrown, and the severed one on the ground had shrivelled
and blackened.

Hasdrubal dropped Zeteis, once a godling but
now a corpse. He tried shouting commands to his troops, but it
was hopelessthey were in bitter infighting now, and all
Hasdrubal could do was join in and hope his side won. Already, he
was up to his knees in blood and human waste.

Then, across the field, he saw Mago leading a
small cluster of men in a rally. The brutish man wasn't a good
strategist, but he was second to none in combat.

Or second to none that Hasdrubal had yet seen.
The Punic rally was countered by a group of Horatii. One, a tall,
proud man who seemed to be a Gaul himself underneath his severe
Romanesque bearing, charged Mago. Mago's strength punched through
the man's armor and shattered his weapons, but could not break
the man himself. Hasdrubal shivered and realized that this was
Quintillus Marcus Graekki, the Warrior Who Could Not Be Killed.
He started fighting his way through the battle, trying to take
Mago's place in the fight.

Mago grabbed Marcus and broke both his arms,
but they mended almost instantly. The Horatius was immune to
Mago's strongest blows. Mago himself was not so lucky. Marcus
picked up a piece of his sword and rushed Mago, deliberately
getting hit so he could slip past Mago's guard. Then he jammed
the sword into and across Mago's neck. Shocked, the Punic troops
started falling back.

Hasdrubal reached the fight just as Marcus
released Mago's bloody. It seemed that when Mago hit the ground,
the whole earth trembledbut Hasdrubal quickly realized that
Maharbal had just fallen as well. Hasdrubal grimaced and pointed
his sword at Marcus, inviting him to battle. Marcus, champion of
a hundred battles and slayer of Hannibal's most prominent God,
simply laughed. "You want to avenge your friend,
African?" he called, staring down his nose as if it were a
long Roman proboscis, which it wasn't.

"Actually, I don't even care that he's
dead," Hasdrubal answered. "But I've been assigned to
fight you." Indeed, the two men were enemies long before
they had ever met, thanks to the natures of war.

"You were assigned to fight me?"
Marcus asked. "You poor man." And then they fought.

As gruesome and disgusting as Hasdrubal's many
battles had been, it was even more gruesome when his opponent had
the same power he did. Marcus and Hasdrubal hacked and slashed at
one another, spilling blood and fingers and organs across the
already-stained battlefield, regrowing them as quickly as they
fell. Entire arms and legs were lost and regained before the
battle was done.

The heat of the day and the stress of the fight
began to wear Hasdrubal down, and for a moment he imagined that
he and Marcus were the only fighters at Cannae; they were
certainly taking enough wounds for an entire army. They were a
Gaul and an African, a thousand Gauls and a thousand Africans,
killing each other for the whims of Rome and Carthage... and
those cities themselves danced at the whims of one man, one man
who would transform the world if that was the process required to
make him an immortal...

A cut across Hasdrubal's forehead healed, and
he suddenly realized that he had been delirious because of a head
wound. Marcus was standing over him, trying to decapitate him and
failing because the neck was too regenerative. Hasdrubal stabbed
upwards, hitting Marcus in the genitals. Marcus recoiled in pain,
and Hasdrubal leapt up and resumed the attack.

But they were too evenly matched. If Mago's
blows couldn't kill this man, Hasdrubal reasoned, his own
certainly couldn't. Unless he could strike a blow that Marcus
couldn't heal... Hasdrubal dropped his sword and unsheathed his
dagger. Marcus, who was still only using a sword fragment, lunged
for Hasdrubal's weapon.

Hasdrubal jumped in his path and stabbed the
dagger into Marcus's head. Then, pulling on it with all his
strength, he twisted the handle off the dagger. The blade was
still lodged in Marcus's head. Howling in pain, Marcus clawed at
it, but Hasdrubal shoved the man's hands away and hammered at the
blade with the handle, driving it in until it couldn't be
removed. Now Marcus couldn't heal around it, and would remain in
intense pain. Marcus fled the battlefield, still clawing at his
head, and Hasdrubal was too tired to do anything but let him go.

But the Punic troops were stirred by
Hasdrubal's victory. They routed the Roman troops, annihilating
nearly all of the cavalry and Horatii. Amazingly, Hasdrubal
managed to reform his cavalry after that. Charging across the
rear of the Roman lines, they chased off the other Roman flank,
then pressed into the center of the field and trapped the Roman
infantry between Hasdrubal's horses and Hannibal's footmen.

It was the crushing victory that Hannibal had
been looking for. The Punic forces had devastated four legions
and far more than the normal number of cavalry and Horatii.
Hannibal considered it a total victoryalthough many of his
soldiers and Gods might not have agreed. The Great Maharbal lay
sprawled across the battlefield, his gigantic body having fallen
after a vein in his ankle was cut by a perfectly normal-sized
sword. And Mago lay near him, much smaller but no less dead.

But Hannibal scoffed at such concerns when
Hasdrubal mentioned them to him. "Death is always a part of
war," the General said. "What do those individual
deaths matter today, in light of the victory we won? Nobody will
ever believe the Romans are invincible again. That myth is gone
nowand we, friend, we have taken its place. The whole world
will be talking of the might of Hannibal and Carthage!"

"I'm sure Mago would have liked to hear
them talk, General."

Hannibal laughed and poured himself a drink of
wine, captured from the stores of the dead Proconsul Paullus.
Paullus had been the one to decline Hannibal's invitation to
battle. "Mago? Hasdrubal, don't tell me you miss that old
bastard," Hannibal said, smiling.

"I don't. Not in the least. But I'm sure
he misses being alive."

Hasdrubal left the tent, leaving Hannibal to
bask in his victory while he marched across the field where tens
of thousands had been slain.

[A new scroll. Paper-clipped to the top end is
a page taken from a twentieth-century textbook, with one passage
highlighted.]

...Let Greek gods, then, be recruited, since
they had their place in the world order and many had already
joined Rome. In 205 B.C. the Sibylline books directed the Senate
to the Magna Mater of Pessinus in Asia Minor, great mother of the
gods. An embassy consulted the Delphic oracle and went on to
Pergamum, where Attalus gave them the black meteor stone of the
goddess and a ship to carry it with due solemnity back to Rome;
the young Scipio Nasica of the Cornelian family was judged worthy
to receive her. The stone layas a hint to the
goddessin the temple of Victory on the Palatine, until she
should have her own shrine. Magna Mater did her duty... But she
had her own interests, too...

[Rome. Autumn, 205 B.C.]

"II trust the placement of the stone
is to your liking, madame?" Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica
smiled dimly at the woman, ready to answer her every beck and
call. Although she would never let it show through her haughty,
authoritarian exterior, the woman actually enjoyed all the
fawning the Romans were giving her. And to think, they only
thought she was the high priestess... just imagine if they knew
she was the goddess...

"All is to my liking for now. You must
leave for the consecration; we shall send for you when we need
anything else." Scipio and his toadies scampered away; the
woman decided it was nice to be treated like royalty again.

Her chief retainer felt somewhat differently.
"Finally gone," he grumbled, "we can get down to
work. Any idea of how we're going to defeat Hannibal?"

"Patience, dear Tiresias, patience,"
said Antigone. "After all, we have all the time in the
world."

[From the annals of Hasdrubal,
quartermaster-general of the army of Hannibal; December, 205
B.C.]

The camp is cold, dingy, and despondent; the
soldiers are suffering from exhaustion and epidemic and worst of
all, depression. It has been more than ten years since our
greatest victory, and yet we are farther from defeating Rome now
than we ever were before. Not only do the Romans still fight,
they are now taking the war to Africa, and we are too far into
Italy to stop them. The frustration of the soldiers is perhaps
best summarized by the thought that still runs through the camp:
"If only Hasdrubal had lived."

They do not refer to me, of course; I can't
help but live. In fact, I am still as young and vigorous as the
day I left Kart Hadashtas the day I was found in the sand
seas of the desertwhile the rest of the army grows old and
tired.

And dead. Two years ago, Hannibal's younger
brother Hasdrubal made one last attempt to break through the
Romans' territory and provide us with reinforcements. The ensuing
battle proved to be the Romans' first major victory, and the next
week, Hasdrubal's severed head was thrown over the pickets of our
camp.

Hannibal took the news badlythough
whether he mourned his brother or the ten thousand lost
reinforcements, I cannot say. He has been fighting a defensive
war for the last two years, waiting for Carthage to win on other
fronts, letting history determine his course of action
instead of the other way around. He is a shadow of his former
self.

This is exactly what the Romans want, of
course. After Cannae, even ten years after Cannae, Hannibal's
legend is still too greatthe Romans will not engage him
direct battle and give him the victories he needs to shatter the
public's confidence. Instead, they delay him, confine him, nip at
his heels, keep him isolated and alone. Well, I suppose Hannibal
has always been isolated and alone, but now that is true of his
army as well as his soul. And it is hard to become an immortal
general when there are no foes to fight.

I have avoided this line of thought for years
now, but after the other Hasdrubal's death, I simply cannot
ignore the truth any longer. And what little hope remained after
Hasdrubal's departure was killed by the Magna Mater's arrival.
Carthage has lost. Much as Hannibal might refuse to give up, his
war is over.

The other soldiers realize this as
welland some of them blame me as much as they blame the
Romans. I may be the leader of the Punic Gods, but after Cannae,
the Gods have been given as little opportunity to fight as
Hannibal has. And we, too, grow old and tired. Even Cales's fires
aren't burning as brightly as they once did. His gaze, which once
sliced through breastplates like paper, now barely ignites
kindling. And his inner fires, which made him one of the most
ardent Gods, are dimming as well. He sulks in his tent and
pretends he does not notice the waning power that is forcing him
off the battlefield. No doubt, he would rather have died fighting
alongside Mago and Maharbal.

I fear others wish a similar fate had befallen
me. My power can never help anybody but myselfI remain
young while the rest of the army withers. The soldiers' sullen
stares make it clear that they don't appreciate my vigor. Soon,
this army will no longer be my home. But the Magna Mater's
invitation offers me a new sort of companionship.

I should not even be contemplating this. Rome
has been my enemy for fifteen years, and Hannibal has been my
commander, my companion, and my benefactor. I would be a madman
in the desert if it were not for him. I also would not have led
thousands to death and killed thousands more if it were not for
him. But even that shows how much I owe him, for everything that
I am, I am because he gave it to me. Even my name. His brother's
name.

Yet I am not his brother. I am a man who was
forced into his service, and after enough time somehow mistook
slavery for loyalty. I have followed him for fifteen years,
through all manner of pointless battles and deaths. And where has
it led mea sick, dying camp? A general forgotten by the
very war he started?

I know what I am going to do. I knew two years
ago, when my namesake's head came flying over the pickets.

[Nowhere. December, 205 B.C.]

Getting to the meeting was all too easy; the
mad eunuch priest who delivered the Magna Mater's invitation had
also given Hasdrubal detailed instructions on how to respond to
it. The fanatic had allowed himself to be captured by a patrol
and brought before Hasdrubal, just long enough to convey his
godess's message. Then he'd gouged his eyes out with his own
hands, and died soon afterwards. In that light, perhaps the Magna
Mater really did prize Gods and Horatii above mortals,
regardless of their political or religious affiliation. But
seeing how she'd treated her prized priest, that favor didn't
make Hasdrubal feel any safer.

He didn't have much choice, though. And even if
this meeting did end badly, Hasdrubal wasn't terribly afraid of
death anymore.

The ritual was quite simple: a few herbs were
mixed and burned before going to bed, a few words were chanted
while he drifted off to sleep. Supposedly, the Magna Mater would
take care of the rest. Hasdrubal sank down onto his pallet, and
when his eyes snapped open, he was in a large open-air theatre.

It was daylighteven though it was night
over nearly all of the known worldand the sky was such a
brilliant blue that it didn't seem real. In fact, everything was
too vivid to be real, including Hasdrubal himself. He wore
Carthaginian armor; it shone too brightly, even for the unreal
sunlight. Hasdrubal was the only one in Punic dress; more too-
real people were appearing in the theatre, but all of them seemed
to come from other parts of the world. Some of them wore Roman
clothing, and gave Hasdrubal evil stares. None were so evil as
the stare from Quintillus Marcus Graekki, though. Marcus still
had a nasty scar across his face, even in this idealized place.
Supposedly, the Romans still couldn't get the dagger out
of his head, because his skull healed faster than the chirurgeons
could cut it open. Marcus charged across the theatre, far faster
than Hasdrubal would ever have thought possible, and suddenly the
two men were fighting.

Strangely, their fists passed right through
each other, without doing any harm. Around the theatre, some
other attendants were snickering. Chastised, Marcus slumped down
into a stone seat. Hasdrubal skulked halfway across the theatre
and did the same.

While he was sitting, a slim Greek woman slowly
materialized on the stage, followed by a wrinkled old man who
seemed to have a woman's breasts. Both wore the robes of the Cult
of Magna Mater, and when they were completely materialized, the
woman addressed the crowd. "As you can see, kinfolk, any
struggle here is useless. You were not summoned to fight, but to
listen." By now, the crowd had silenced. "Some of you
already know me," the woman said. "To the rest of you,
I am the Magna Mater. As you can see, I am no giant woman of the
woods, no earth mother, though I could have birthed a thousand
children by now if I so desired.

"I am Antigone, and the more literate and
educated among you will know that means I am royalty. For the
more temporally minded, my current high station in the Roman
Republic should signify power aplenty. Yet my royal blood and my
military power are inconsequential when compared to the real
source of my might, and the real reason I have brought you all
here.

"I cannot die. None of you can, either. We
are all of us immortal."

A buzz of astonishment rippled through most of
the crowd. Even Hasdrubal, who had guessed at the purpose for
this meeting, could not believe that they were all
immortals. There must have been twenty of them... twenty other
people like him. Hasdrubal shed one solitary tear of joy, and in
this perfect place, the tear was liquid diamond.

"That's right," Antigone continued.
"We are all immortals. The ultimate step in the
ascension of the human race, from our humble origins as dull
creatures made of gold and put on the earth by Zeus. And the time
has come for us to band together." Behind her, the
hermaphrodite high priest produced a large black stoneor
the idea of a large black stoneand began chanting over it.
Soon, images of the current war filled all their heads. Hasdrubal
watched friends and enemies die all over again, with a curious
detachment caused by the new perspective. "Our fellow
Horatiior Godshave been pitted against each other, to
further the interests of two mortal cities. Two of our kind have
even battled, to the disfigurement of one." Hasdrubal saw
his battle with Marcus; across the theatre, the legionary
scowled. "Fellow immortals," said Antigone, "this
mutual slaughter has to stop. We are too few and too valuable to
squander, particularly at each other's hands. I have summoned you
here to call for an immediate withdrawal from one side,
and to propose that we engineer a similar withdrawal for all
mortal Horatii."

Hasdrubal instantly knew, just by looking
around, that he was the only one present from Carthage's side.
The others knew it as well. Marcus grinned triumphantly.

As a formality, there was some debate on the
issue, but it was neither long nor significant. Five immortals
were allied with Rome. The vast majority had no opinion one way
or the other, but could not be swayed to side with Hasdrubal and
Carthage against five others. Nor could Hasdrubal blame them; one
against five were odds that only Hannibal would take. Antigone
announced that the withdrawal from Carthage was decided, and
Hasdrubal stood up angrily.

"I have decided no such thing," he
announced, even if he had been contemplating it all along,
"and I will not decide for my mortal allies. This body has
no authority over me anyway."

Antigone tried very hard not to smile, but a
faint smirk crept through her resolve anyway. "My dear
Hasdrubal," she said, "you haven't been long on this
earth, have you? We fellow immortals have the only
authority over you. No city can be built that will not crumble
out from under you. And when Rome and Carthage are both dust, and
this war is just a fading memory, we will still be here.
And we will remember if you crossed us. You will be a pariah, not
from one city or empire or continent, but from all history."

Threats of physical revenge, like those offered
by Marcus, did not intimidate Hasdrubal. But to lose the only
constant companions on the planet... it was far too much.

Still, something in him would not let him
surrender so easily. Perhaps it was the way Marcus and the
hermaphrodite and Antigone smiled, as if they were playing a joke
on the African. Perhaps it was simply the Hannibal that was in
him.

"I acknowledge the wisdom of your
words," Hasdrubal said. "It is simply... it is simply
your authority in this meeting that I challenge. Why
should you be allowed to determine the terms of the vote? Why
determine our actions at all? We are all equally immortal
here."

"Don't be so sure, African," Marcus
called.

"That's not necessary, Marcus,"
Antigone said, a little too sweetly. "Threats will not move
this warrior, but perhaps logic will. Hasdrubal, surely you
cannot wish to prolong the war any further. Hannibal's cause is
all but doomed. You may think you owe something to the man, but
he will be dead one day,"

-- Or his own kind of immortal, Hasdrubal
thought --

"And we will still be around. Why
condemn yourself, and those like you, to more pointless death?
Carthage and Rome, Hasdrubal, don't really matter. We
matter. Let's not kill each other. Now return to your camp and
abide by our agreement, hmm? You can come back once you've
realized who your real allies should be."

Hasdrubal tried to organize his tumultuous
thoughts. "There is much wisdom in your words," he
said, "but the issue is your power --"

Antigone batted her eyes. "Go."

[Bruttium. December, 205 B.C.]

Hasdrubal woke up in a cold sweat. He spent a
few minutes shaking it off, and a few hours thinking about the
meeting. Antigone's arguments against the war were sound enough,
but something about her domination of the meeting deeply troubled
him. Hasdrubal desperately wanted to do the right thing, but
wondered if it really was the right thing if she wanted it done.

After a while, Hasdrubal got up and stepped out
of his tent, into the camp. He had to admit, it looked pathetic.
A bunch of men waiting for relief or battle, neither of which
would never come. One man waiting most intently of all.

Hasdrubal walked past the guards and slipped
into Hannibal's tent. He sat next to the general for a few
moments, watching the man toss and turn in his sleep. After a
while, Hannibal seemed to take notice of him. "'Sdrubal...
you decide to sleep here tonight?" he mumbled.

"Hannibal..." Hasdrubal whispered.
Perhaps there was some better way of doing this. "Hannibal,
are we going to return to Africa? Are we going to stop
this?"

Hasdrubal patted his friend's head.
"That's right," he whispered. "Elephants to the
heart of Rome... your toy elephants and savages... just like you
always wanted."

After a while, Hannibal drifted back to sleep.
Hasdrubal rose, left the general's tent, and headed back to his
own. Quickly, quietly, he began to pack his possessions.

[A new scroll. Another highlighted passage from
a twentieth-century book is attached.]

...But at Zama, Hannibal had not encountered a
Longus or a Varro or a Fulvius; his elephants were not the noble
beasts that had crossed the Pyrenees, the Rhone and the Alps; his
cavalry, inferior in number, had apparently no Hasdrubal...

[Rome. November, 202 B.C.]

The news had finally reached Rome: Hannibal and
Carthage were at last defeated. Scipio Africanusassisted by
a division of unmatched Horatiihad bested Hannibal at Zama.
Soon, he would force Carthage to accept his terms of peace. The
war was virtually over, and Rome was victorious. The people of
Rome danced through the streets, their enthusiastic celebrations
making even the wild eunuchs of Magna Mater look tame for once.

The Magna Mater herself actually was
tame. She walked calmly through the halls of the temple of
Victory, followed by her retainers and immortals. Marcus had
brought news directly from the front; the last, lingering Gods
who hadn't abandoned Carthage had been killed. He'd even brought
the eyes of Cales as a trophy.

"Well, that's one loose end tied up,"
Antigone said. "Without Gods to match us, Carthage is no
threat. Now we have to slowly suppress our own mortal Horatii...
I want no record of their participation in the war to survive. None."
Of course, Antigone wanted to control far more than just the
Horatii's history, but her followers didn't need to know that
just yet. "We don't need any more legends giving us
problems. I also want Scipio kept as far from Rome as possible;
the man is far too popular for our own good." Antigone
suddenly stopped walking, and tapped one foot on the floor
impatiently. "Are you getting all this down?"
she imperiously asked her secretary.

Her secretary stopped staring at the glistening
black meteor stone in the center of the temple, and started
transcribing her commands again. "I'm sorry, Magna
Mater," Hasdrubal said, and when she started walking again
he shuffled after her.

[Astral space. December, 185 B.C.]

The meetings were uncommon and sparsely
attended once the war ended, but all the immortals came to this
one. It was the twentieth anniversary of their first
meetinga very minor milestone to immortals, but an exact
milestone nonethelessand besides, Antigone had some
important announcements.

They held this meeting in astral space, just
like the first one, so that everybody could attend. After the
initial pleasantries and small talk, Antigone called the meeting
to order. Antigone always ran the meetings.

"I intend to address the wars between Rome
and Greece," she said, "but first some more pleasant
business. After conferring with my associates, I have decided on
a name for our little family. As we are all somewhat long-lived
--" she waited for laughter that didn't come"I
propose that we name ourselves the Vitalongae."

"Always a Latin name, isn't it,
Antigone?" said Hasdrubal. The outburst took his mistress by
surprise. "Just like you always call us Horatii... we aren't
all Roman, Antigone, and we don't all prefer their
language."

Antigone was shocked, but she recovered
quickly. "My my," she said, "it seems Hasdrubal
has found his backbone once again. I suppose it would
regenerate.... Tell me, secretary, what do you propose
instead?"

"I propose you stop calling me a Horatius.
Where I came from, I was a God."

"And I am an Asherah," said one of
the immortals from the audience.

"I am a Star Bureaucrat --"

The outburst astonished Antigone, Tiresias, and
Marcus. The other immortals never acted like this; most were glad
just to have other immortals to talk to, and the rest were
positively afraid of being ostracized. Antigone tried to regain
some control over the group by announcing she would pick another
name.

"You aren't going to be picking anything,
Antigone," Hasdrubal said. "You don't run us. From now
on, everything comes to a vote."

Antigone was turning bright rednot the
pinkish red that flushes people in real life, but the literal,
ultravivid red of astral space. "I barely tolerated your
antics twenty years ago," she screamed, "and I will not
tolerate them now! You are out of the Vitalongae,
Hasdrubal, and when you wake up you had best run quickly, because
I will have Marcus torture you on sight!"

Hasdrubal smiled. "Sorry, Antigone, but
that would be against the rules. No member of the Vitalongae may
do harm to anotherit's going to be our first and only
law."

Antigone turned to the other immortals.
"You see, he is the one who wants to order you
around!"

"Actually," said Hasdrubal, "we
put it to a vote yesterday. And by unanimous decision, we decided
that we don't want you threatening us. I suppose my peers
remembered when you threatened me, and considered how easily you
could do the same to them." He stepped closer to Antigone,
whispering in her face. "You might consider that now, we can
do the same to you. Don't try to oppose us."

Tiresias, who had been hastily fiddling over
his astral image of the meteor stone, waved the image aside and
approached Hasdrubal. "You've been using the stone, haven't
you? You learned the rituals and called your own meetings!"

"He did considerably more than that,"
said Fei Lien, the immortal from the other side of the world.
"He taught us all the rituals as well. Antigone, your
leadership is ended." To prove his point, Fei Lien clapped
his hands together, and the Greco-Roman amphitheatre disappeared
-- to be replaced by the interior of a large, circular tower,
filled with paper lanterns and carved dragons.

While the other immortals clapped and joked
amongst themselves, changing the scenery to suit their whims,
Antigone glowered at Hasdrubal. "You feigned servitude all
this time?"

"Antigone, with all the servitude I've
endured, yours was quite easy to adopt and discard."

The scenery was changing around her, from
pagoda to ziggurat to unspoiled forest. There was nothing else
she could do. Antigone laughed. "You've got me this
time," she told Hasdrubal between giggles, "but I have
a long memory and a long life to match it. You will
pay."

Not to be outdone, Hasdrubal grinned.
"Just so long as you follow the rules."

When the immortals finally settled down, they
addressed the naming issue again. None of the other proposed
names for the organization sounded better than "the
Vitalongae," and the slight plurality of Roman and
Roman-allied immortals meant the Latin name was chosen. However,
the group was quite insistent upon rejecting the
"Horatii" appelation for all humans with special
abilities.

To Hasdrubal's slight annoyance, Antigone
devised the compromise nameand she chose it from her native
tongue. "As we are the ultimate step in the progression of
the human race," she said proudly, "I propose that we
name ourselves after the final letter of the Greek alphabet. With
your permission --" she still sounded bitter about that --
"I say we name ourselves Omegas."

Even Hasdrubal had to admit that it sounded
good. One of the many things he'd learned from Hannibal and the
Magna Mater was the power of names. In fact, that was one last
thing he had to tend to, before he ran out of time.

[Bithynia. 182 B.C.]

"You filthy ingrate! Get out of my
sight!" Hannibal hurled his cup across the room, with great
strength and accuracy for a man of sixty- four.

However, Hasdrubal dodged it with ease.
"Do you really want to waste your whole life
fighting," he asked calmly, "or will you save a little
time at the very end for peace?"

Hannibal was looking for another implement to
throw, but he reconsidered and sank back down to his couch.
"Ah, I couldn't hurt you anyway."

"For what it's worth, General, I didn't
want to hurt you, either."

"It wasn't me you hurt," Hannibal
protested, "it was Carthage."

Hasdrubal nodded his head reproachfully; such a
shame that the mortal had taken longer to face the truth than the
immortal. "Carthage still stands," he said, "and I
even hear that trouble with Rome is brewing again. Although I
don't see why they should start picking fights after they
ran you out of town. They can't win without you."

"I won't be around when the next war
starts anyway. But you, on the other hand... if you
returned...." Hannibal looked at Hasdrubal imploringly, but
then he corrected himself before the immortal could do it.
"Oh, screw all that. Neither one of those damn cities
deserve us. Carthage was always just a means to an end."

"Not my end," Hasdrubal said.

"No, not your end." The anger
had fled from Hannibal now, and he invited Hasdrubal to sit
beside him; the immortal accepted. "It wasn't my end
either," said Hannibal. "My end is to run from one
defeat to another, one pissant kingdom to another, fleeing the
Romans until I can't flee anymore. And far from becoming an
immortal, I am about to discover just how mortal I am." He
pointed to a phial sitting on a small table, which he'd been
ready to pour when Hasdrubal entered the room. "That's my
largest regret, you know. If I am remembered, it will be as the
man who lost to Rome. Not the sort of immortality I wanted."

"That's why I'm here, General. I think I
can give you some of what you wanted. Without resorting to more
war." Hasdrubal waved his hands from his head down to his
torso, indicating his own unchanged body. It hurt Hannibal to
look at it; it reminded him of old days that could never be
recaptured, and new days he would never see. Yet it was also his
last chance.

"I cannot promise to take up your exact
cause or methods," Hasdrubal continued, "for I am not
your slave or your surrogate brother anymore. Nor can I promise
what history will say about you. But I can promise I will always
be as independent as you were. I will always be an elephant in
the streets of Rome. And I can even insure that Hannibal will be
responsible for all I do. There is just one thing I ask of
you."

Hannibal's body tensed as he waited for the
request. Hasdrubal leaned in closer, pressing his lips against
Hannibal's ear. After he was done asking, Hannibal stared at him
for a moment. Then, laughing, Hannibal said "Of course, of
course! After all you did for me, all I gave to you..."
Hannibal laughed even louder, and grabbed the phial. "Let
those Roman bastards come for me, they'll find I've slipped
through their grasp once again! Hannibal never surrenders!"
He nearly drank the phial, but at the last moment he paused and
asked Hasdrubal, "You won't surrender, will you?"

"Not if I have such power and
responsibility as you."

"Then take it. It's yours." Hannibal
drank the contents of the phial. "Hasdrubal," he said,
"I'm glad you could beglad you could --" Hannibal
dropped to the floor and convulsed madly.

The poison wasn't gentle, but it was swift. The
immortal held the dying man for a few minutes, and when the man
stopped twitching, the immortal respectfully laid him on the
couch.

The immortal left the room, the first person to
hear the terrible news that Hannibal, once the greatest man in
the world, was now deadafter a fashion.

He also had some news for his immortal peers,
the next time they saw him. He wasn't taking the name of a slave
or kid brother anymore. His new name was much, much more
powerful.

"Hannibal is dead," he muttered,
pausing before a small mirror. "Long live Hannibal."

[A note scribbled onto the back of the final
scroll, written in Hannibal's hand, sometime in the late
nineteenth century.]

And so the General did have his immortality. I
even replayed his war, in a much more humane fashion, in my
constant challenges to Antigone, Marcus, and their ilk. The
General himself enjoyed another sort of immortality as well, for
despite his pessimistic predictions, he was indeed venerated as
one of the greatest generals in history. His amazing personality
has continues to burn across time and around the world,
enthralling all who encounter it. I am even told that the
General's influence is felt on the American frontier, where a
small Missouri town is named for him.

No matter how much he used and controlled me,
no matter how many people he killed, I am glad the General
finally got his wish. Because every mention of his name or his
reputation reminds me of that brief, glorious time when it
actually seemed that Africa might march triumphantly through the
heart of Europe.

[Washington, D.C. July 20, 1995.]

Jack set down the final scroll, and he leaned
back in his chair. He noticed that morning light was streaming
through the windows, and probably had been for some time, but he
was still thinking about the story he'd read.

He was ecstatic. He didn't have any more clues
about Hannibal's disappearance, he didn't even know his ultimate
origins, but he did feel he knew the man a lot better now. He
also knew about the Vitalongae, Antigone, and Tiresias... perhaps
he even knew why Hannibal didn't want him to meddle in mortal
affairs. He was filled with knowledge and history and a past he
could relate to. It seemed too good to be true.

And it probably wasn't true. Because
Jack couldn't read Latin or Greek. He couldn't read whatever the
Carthaginians wrote in, and he sure as hell couldn't speak
whatever they spoke in astral space. And the convenient date
notations... nobody would have used the term "B.C."
when writing two hundred years before Christianity. Everything
he'd read had been a series of English translations, written
around and between and behind of the originals. For all Jack
knew, he could have been missing half the story. Or the whole
thing could've been made up.

No, he couldn't think that way. These scrolls
were his only leads, so he'd have to use them, and take their
tales at face value. He even had to rely on them to pick his next
reading.

The Carthaginian expedition found Hannibal in
the middle of the Sahara Desert. Jack eyed the pile of journals,
knowing that in his next reading, he'd go back to Africa.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Next issue: Forward in time, and back to epic Africa. Hopefully,
there will be a bit more on the disappearance plot... and, a
woman enters the picture.

This issue's quote comes from A.H. McDonald's Republican
Rome, my inspiration for how Antigone came into the plot. The
Zama quote comes from Brian Caven's The Punic Wars, an
excellent work that provided most of the actual facts found in
this story. Caven's book alerted me to the real Hasdrubal, who
actually was a great tactician as well as Hannibal's
quartermaster-general. No sign that he was immortal, but then
again, I didn't find any mention of his death...